Things That Shine
by famousfirstwords95
Summary: She looks around, feeling foreign in a familiar place, until she notices a friendly face...Samchel romance with some angst. semi-AU. begins around 6x01.
1. Things That Shine

She remembers getting lost for the very first time. She was five years old and in the blink of an eye she let go of her dad's hand, only to be swallowed in a stampede of children racing through the mall to be first in line to see Santa. It was bad enough Jewish kids like her didn't even get a Santa, and when her dad found her crying in a corner he picked her up in his arms and promised to buy her ice cream (she wasn't a vegan then) to make her feel better.

She remembers getting lost a second time, and how different it was from the first. No one was holding her hand, and no one ever found her and promised to buy her ice cream, because no one could.

This time she'll have to find herself.

That's what she's thinking as she's rummaging through old boxes and piles of nostalgia in her childhood bedroom at home. She thinks maybe she'll open one of the boxes and find a better version of herself inside. A younger, more vibrant version of the broken girl she is today.

Life's been chipping away at her for more than a year now, dealing her one blow after another until she's thoroughly beaten down, defeated. Hollywood throws her out, laughs her out, tells her to go home, which she does, only to find her house up for sale, her dads separated and soon to be divorced. As for her friends, they're all scattered in various uncertain places both in and out of Lima, and so she pretty much considers them lost as well.

She opens yet another dust covered box and finds an assortment of gold stars inside. She smiles weakly, thinking of the bright, determined little girl who'd collected them all. Big stars, little stars, all of them metaphors for the destiny she was so certain would be hers one day. Then her smile fades and she closes up the box and places it on top of a pile of stuff marked "THROW AWAY."

Her phone rings. Her face brightens for the first time in days when she sees the name flashing on the screen. "Kurt?" she answers.

"Well hello Miss Streisand! I thought for sure I'd have to speak to at least seven members of your entourage before they passed me through to you."

Her face falls. "I most definitely don't have an entourage," she says dejectedly.

"Really? Oh well, you're better off that way. Those diva reputations will haunt you for life. Look at J-Lo."

"Kurt, I...I'm home now. I'm in Lima."

"You're what?" he almost shouts. "Rachel, what the hell happened?"

She pauses before answering. "Everything happened. And then it fell apart. I came back home to, I don't know, lick my wounds, and try to sort through the rubble, but oh god, Kurt, nothing's the same, everyone's gone, my house is for sale, my family's breaking up, and I'm-"

"Rachel, rachel, calm down," he soothes. "Ok, so you've had some setbacks. But there's one thing you've still got...me."

"Wait what? You're home too?"

"That's right," he says, sounding a bit disheartened as well. "And you thought you were the only one living the dream!"

"Oh my God, Kurt, this is the best news I've heard in weeks! Even though I'm sure there's, you know, a _reason_ why you're no longer in New York. We can talk about that later...if you want."

He sighs. "It would be an honor to commiserate with you, Rachel Berry."

"Breadstix in half an hour?" she asks.

"I'll be there."

* * *

"Wow, there's really no going back, is there?" Kurt says, unimpressed by his eggplant parmesan. "I mean once you've sampled some of the finest Italian food in New York everything on the Breadstix menu just winds up tasting like a Lean Cuisine."

"I guess we had it pretty good there, didn't we?" Rachel says gloomily.

Kurt puts down his fork and gives her a dry look. "All right, cheer up, Lana Del Rey. Who says you can't go back to New York and start all over again?"

"Because it's not the same city anymore. Not to me, anyway. I failed it, and it failed me."

"You didn't fail, Rachel. You were a smash on Broadway, and then you left for something you thought would be better. It wasn't, of course, but it'll be ok."

She shakes her head, looking down. "I can't believe you didn't hear about my show bombing as hard as it did."

"Yeah, well. I guess I've been too busy being a sad sack since Blaine and I broke up."

She reaches across the table and takes his hand, giving him a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry we lost touch over these past few months, Kurt. I've really missed you."

He smiles weakly. "I've missed your crazy ass too, Berry. And hey, here's to being Lima Losers together instead of apart."

They each raise their glasses for a half-hearted cheers. Just then, Kurt spots a familiar face at the other end of the restaurant.

"Oh my God, look who it is."

* * *

Sam sits on Rachel's side of the booth, listening politely as Kurt attempts to assassinate his comment about liking the food in Lima better than the food in New York.

"I mean come on, Sam, Lima's idea of international cuisine is one of those Taco Bell drive thru's that's also a Pizza Hut and a Kentucky Fried Chicken."

"My point exactly," Sam argues. "Where in New York can you get a burrito, a chicken wing, and a slice for less than two dollars?"

Kurt just rolls his eyes, incredulous. Rachel just laughs and shakes her head at the two of them, mostly lost in thought.

"So Sam," Kurt says, switching gears. "What else brought you back to Lima? I mean besides the Kentucky fried tacos."

Sam shrugs. "Mostly the familiarity, I guess. I mean New York's great if you're a person who sees your name up in lights, but me, I sort of just got lost in it all."

"Understandable," Kurt says.

"I never thought I'd see the two of you back here, though," Sam says. "Especially you, Rachel."

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, not looking at either of them. "Yeah, well. That's my life," she says hollowly. "Now if you guys don't mind, I think I'll get the check and head home."

* * *

She sits alone at The Lima Bean typing song lyrics on her iPad. She's been reworking the same verse for nearly an hour, vaguely wondering how it's possible she's already written a song called "Get It Right," and cringing to think of it being all the more relevant to her life now than it ever was back then.

She focuses intensely, furrowing her brow, straining to get it right, just one thing, one tiny little thing in her life, even if it's nothing more than this one measly lyric in a song. She's so absorbed she barely even feels the light tap on her shoulder, followed by a familiar voice saying her name.

"Rachel?"

She looks up to see Sam standing over her.

"Sam, hey," she says, a little surprised to see him. She wouldn't have figured him to be much of a coffee drinker, but then again they were both 'adults' now, well, sort of.

"How's it going?" he asks with a smile.

"Oh, fine, thanks. How 'bout you?"

"I'm just coming in for my shift, actually. I work here."

"Oh," she says, noticing the apron he's holding.

"Surprised?"

"A little," she admits. "I wouldn't have imagined you as the barista type."

"Yeah, I know. I try taking people's orders in my Matthew McConaughey voice but a lot of the customers here are hipsters and just look at me like I'm a moron. I do my best to fit in, though."

"You don't have to fit in, Sam," she says, her tone a bit sad but full of sincerity.

He smiles warmly, appreciating the sentiment. "Well regardless if I fit in or not, I better get to work."

"Ok, sure," she says. "It was nice seeing you."

"You too, Rachel. Let me know if you need anything-you know, like, a refill, or something."

She smiles. "Thanks. I will."

* * *

"You're kidding!" she exclaims redundantly. She knows if Kurt Hummel were ever kidding about anything his tone would be riddled with sarcasm, not enthusiasm and sincerity.

"Isn't it incredible?" he shouts through the phone, unable to contain his excitement. "I mean two hours ago I would've thought my next move would be on a chessboard. Next thing I know I'm booking a flight to Paris! Louis Vuitton, Rachel, can you believe it?"

"I'm so happy you got the internship, Kurt. It's really amazing."

"Of course I'm going to miss you like crazy, and things between Blaine and I are going to have to remain unresolved for the next six months. But I honestly think it'll be a good thing on all fronts, you know? Not to mention I'll be in _Paris_, for God's sake!"

Rachel smiles, ecstatic for her friend, but unable to deny the bittersweetness of it all. She'd been in those spirits once, not too long ago, when the future promised bright and brilliant things for her, and the opportunities seemed to be knocking on her door with an undeterrable persistence.

"Rachel?" he asks. "You still there?"

Realizing her end of the line has been silent for several moments, she answers, "Yeah. Sorry, Kurt. I'm really over the moon for you, even though I'm going to miss you so, so much."

"Don't sweat it, Barbra. We'll have daily Skype sessions and I'll text you everytime I think of you, which will be often. My guess is you'll end up sick of me."

"I doubt that, Kurt. You're one of my only...I mean, you're my best friend."

Kurt hears the melancholy in her voice and hopes he hasn't been rubbing all of this in her face. He knows her happiness for him is genuine, but no doubt she's straining to join him in celebration mode given the recent hits she's taken, both personally and professionally.

"Listen, Rach, everything's going to work out just fine for you. I'll always be just a phone call away if you need me. But if I know Rachel Berry, and I do, she's going to have her name up in lights again in no time."

She wishes she believed him, and she's trying so hard to smile, but it hurts. She'll have to forge an exterior of resilience if only to stoke the fires of her friend's unwavering faith in her. Besides that, she hates being the big buzzkill. Her song was always "Don't Rain On My Parade," but lately she ought to be singing apologies for raining on everyone elses.

"You're right, Kurt," she says evenly. "And good luck in Paris. I know you're going to set it on fire with your awesomeness."

Kurt smiles. "Thanks, Berry. But wait...you're taking me to the airport, aren't you?"

* * *

A week later she sees Kurt off at the airport along with Carole and Burt. They hug goodbye and she clings to him, not wanting him to see her cry. He promises to Skype her as soon as he locates his apartment and settles in, but in all honesty she doesn't count on him following through on that, and doesn't blame him. She's certain there are far better sights to see in Paris than the face of a moody-eyed Jewish girl.

Later that afternoon she heads over to The Lima Bean with her iPad. She figures a little caffeine will perk her spirits while she rewrites the lyrics to her favorite song, changing its title to, "Don't Parade On My Rain."

When she gets there she sees him behind the counter, wearing his apron.

"Hey Rachel," he greets her.

"Hey Sam. I wasn't sure if you'd be working or not."

"You just caught me at the tail end of my shift. So what'll it be?"

She's looking at him, smiling. "You didn't do it."

"Do what?"

"Take my order as Matthew McConaughey."

He smiles back at her. "Sorry. Let me rephrase that," he says, then gets into character. "Hay, hay, hay, so little lady, what'll it be? We got some uh, pretty sweet vegan coffee beans flown in from The Dominican. Hay, hay, hay, hay."

She laughs way too hard, earning her several humorless looks from the other patrons in line, and she's a little embarrassed.

Sam laughs too, happy to amuse her, but steps out of character so he can clarify something. "But I was just kidding about the coffee beans being vegan...well, actually I'm not really sure if they are or not. I mean, is coffee even vegan? It doesn't like, come from a cow or anything, does it?"

"No, it's ok," she tells him. "I'll just take a black tea anyway."

"Ok, sure. What's that guy's name again?"

"Earl Grey," she says, smiling again.

"Comin' right up, little lady," he says as McConaughey.

She gets her tea, then finds a vacant table in the corner close to the fire place. She opens a file on her iPad, not feeling particularly inspired at the moment, so instead she just sort of stares absently into the crackling fire, waiting for her tea to cool. Time passes, and her thoughts are far away when she hears a comically deep and charismatic voice singing somewhere behind her.

"_Chestnuts roasting on an open fire_…"

She giggles before tearing her eyes away from the dull flames and looking up to see him standing over her wearing a charicaturishly cool, crooning grin, the spitting impersonation of some Frank Sinatra-esque performer. Meanwhile most of the patrons sitting nearby are shooting him deadpan looks, begging him not to pursue the song any further, especially since it's not even the Christmas season.

"Sorry," he says in his normal voice. "You just look like you're in one of those Bing Crosby Christmas specials from the 1950's or something...that's not a bad thing, by the way."

"Well, I doubt anybody'll be hiring me to spread Christmas cheer anytime soon."

"Why not? Because you're Jewish?"

She looks down. "Yeah, that. And, you know...I'm not so cheerful. They'd probably all just laugh at me anyway."

She won't look at him for some reason, and he takes the opportunity to study her appearance, noticing for the first time how spiritless and withdrawn she really looks. For a girl who would normally make her presence known she seems alarmingly intent on shrinking away, diminishing her own light until she's as unremarkably dull as the burnt-out monotony of her surroundings. He feels stupid for coming over here and bothering her with another dipshit impression when she's obviously at an all time low.

"Listen Rachel," he says, making her look up at him again finally. "I'm sorry if I bothered you."

"You didn't," she assures him. "Are you done with your shift?"

"Yeah, finally."

"Well, you can sit down if you want," she offers, gesturing to the empty seat opposite her.

He's surprised she wants company, and shows it in his face.

"I mean, unless you're dying to get out of here, which I would totally understand."

"No, no," he reassures her, taking a seat. He instantly relaxes back into it, sighing in relief. "Feels good to take a load off. I feel like I've been on my feet making coffee for days."

"Well you seem to be getting pretty good at it."

"It's not as lucrative as stripping or male modeling, that's for sure. So I guess the morale of that story is, all the jobs that pay worth a damn are the ones that make you take your clothes off."

She smiles, and thinks she might be blushing a little. She clears her throat. "Well, I'm sure this is just a temporary thing for you. Not that, you know, there's anything wrong with it."

"Yeah, well, we'll see. I mean if I'm not gonna go to college and I'm not gonna sell my body there's only so much else out there that I can do."

"Oh come on, Sam, now why would you even think that? I mean there's so much potential for you, and you're so young, there's so much time, you'll figure it all out eventually."

He smiles a little, appreciating the morale boost, but thinking she more than anyone should probably learn how to take her own advice. "Thanks, Rach. Oh, and I never knew you were such a fan of my McConaughey impression, by the way."

"Who wouldn't be?" she says automatically. Then suddenly her face brightens as an idea enters her head. "Hey! You know what you should do?"

"What?"

"I remember seeing a Youtube video of this guy who's now on Saturday Night Live. He did like 50 impressions in 5 minutes and got millions of hits. You could totally do something like that, I mean who knows who might see it, and Youtube, as we all know, is the most effective way to reach an audience nowadays, I mean all it takes is one video going viral and you could end up on Jimmy Fallon in no time. What do you think?"

Just her enthusiasm alone has him intrigued, and her rapid fire speech makes him think the old Rachel Berry is still very much alive in there somewhere.

"It's not a bad idea," he says, and he thinks rejecting it would do little to kill her buzz, she's so enlivened by the prospect of helping someone pursue their dreams.

"Oh my God, you should _totally_ do it, Sam, I'm serious! I mean your repertoire of impressions is probably huge, I've been hearing you do them for years. Maybe you could also, um, use your modeling skills to your advantage as well...you know, if you-if you wanted to. Just a thought."

She's a little embarrassed now, kind of wishing she hadn't mentioned that last part, and thinking maybe she's coming on a little too strongly since that's a thing she does, well, _used_ to do, and anyway, it wasn't like he'd even asked specifically for any career advice, or tips from her on how to make a video of himself doing impressions while shirtless. Wait...shirtless?

"I think you might be onto something, Rachel," he says. "I mean now that you mention it, I _have_ always wanted to do comedy of some kind. Maybe not stand up comedy where people can boo you off the stage, but a sketch comedy like Saturday Night Live, oh man, that'd be _awesome_."

She's smiling now, so relieved her overzealousness hasn't thoroughly freaked him out. On the contrary, he seems genuinely intrigued by everything she's suggested thus far. "I never knew you wanted to work in comedy, Sam."

He shrugs. "I guess it's not something I ever let myself think was a viable option. I mean they say dying is easy but comedy is hard."

"It's not that hard if you're good at it," she says with sincerity.

He blushes a little. "Yeah, well. If I thought I was as good at anything as you are at singing I wouldn't have second-guessed myself for a minute."

She tries to smile. The kind of flattery she used to thrive on now just makes her ache inside. "I haven't, um...sang in a really long time."

She's not sure why she even tells him that. It's not like he even cares, or like he was ever on the edge of his seat awaiting her next vocal performance.

"That's ok," he says, looking her in the eye. "Some comedians go a long time without laughing...it doesn't mean they aren't still funny."

She doesn't try to smile, but does anyway. He smiles too and they stay there talking by the fire for quite a while longer.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are much appreciated...I'll try to update this frequently if there's enough interest. Peace!**


	2. Unusual You

After weeks of moping she's finally decided to venture out of her gloom state. It's nothing glamorous or anything, just an interview with the director of a local music camp that one of her dads managed to line up for her. Her heart's not really in it and she hardly knows a thing about teaching young children, but she figures it's at least a non-committal enough gig that won't require more than four weeks of her dedication.

The place isn't much, just a mid-sized room with a piano and a makeshift stage. The director interviews her formally, but it's apparent that even in light of her recent showbiz debable she's still vastly overqualified for the job.

"You can start on Monday, Rachel," says Ms. Lancaster, a pristinely dressed woman in her fifties.

"Oh, you...you mean I'm hired?" Rachel asks, surprised.

"That's right," Ms. Lancaster says, smiling. "I'm sure it will be quite a privilege for these children to get to learn from a real Broadway star."

Rachel just smiles nervously, and it's safe to assume this woman hasn't been following any of the Broadway blogs as of late. "Thank you, Ms. Lancaster," she says. "I'll be here on Monday."

* * *

Later that evening she's at home rummaging through her closet in search of teacher-appropriate outfits when her phone buzzes on the nightstand. Glancing at the screen, she sees it's a text from Sam.

**Sam: hi rachel. wanna hang out tonight? i was thinking u and i could make a video**

A few moments pass before a second message shoots through.

**Sam: i meant, ya know, like a video of my impressions, like we talked about before...if you're not doing anything else tonight. let me know.**

She's smiling as she texts him back.

**Rachel: lol sure. we can do it in my room if you want.**

As soon as she sends the message her brow furrows slightly and she quickly follows it up with:

**Rachel: i mean we can do the video at my house if you want. i have a camera and a tripod in my bedroom.**

She hits "send," still a bit embarrassed by the wording of it all. Another moment passes before he replies with:

**Sam: awesome. be there in 20 mins. **

An hour later they're in her room and she's standing behind her video camera trying to stifle her laughter as he rattles off a series of celebrity impersonations ranging from Nicolas Cage to Barack Obama. She's already ruined several takes, unable to keep from cracking up at the faces he's pulling and the voices he's doing. She usually loses it somewhere around his John Mayer, and this time is no exception.

"Your bah-day is wondah-land," he sings, breaking character when he sees her doubled over with laughter once again.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes through her giggles.

"It's all right," he says, cracking up along with her.

"I think maybe I should just hit 'record' and then leave the room until you're done. We've seriously done like forty takes and I still can't keep it together."

"It's cool, this is good practice anyway. May as well perfect my craft as best I can before subjecting myself to the harsh critics of Youtube land."

She takes a deep breath, standing up straight as if a new wave of self control has just possessed her. "Ok," she says, "No laughing this time, I promise. You ready?"

"Ready when you are," he says.

"Ok, here we go. And-action!" She hits 'record' and steps to the side, out of his line of vision so her face won't distract him.

"What's up, Youtube?" he says to the camera for the what must be the fortieth time. "My name's Sam Evans. I'm just an ameature comediene who likes doing impressions. In this video I'm going to-"

"Wait a minute. Cut!" Rachel interrupts once again, stepping in to stop the recording.

"Did you just yell 'cut'?" he asks. It figures it was only a matter of time before she assumed the role of creative director.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but you really should rethink calling yourself an ameature in your introduction."

"Yeah, but Rach, that's...kind of what I am."

"Yes, but _they_ don't have to know that! You referring to yourself as ameature is like setting the audience up for an underwhelming performance. You have to be one step ahead of them. Project an aura of confidence, even if it's a partial facade."

"I see your point," he agrees. "So what do you think I should say instead?"

"Hang on," she says, suddenly scrambling to find a pen and paper as if an influx of ideas are just swarming around her head like flies.

Her back is turned away from him and he can't help but seize the opportunity to stare at her a little. Just then his phone rings. He glances at the screen before answering it with some reluctance.

"Hello?...yeah, hey...oh my god, I'm so sorry, I totally forgot that was tonight...do you think maybe we could just-...ok, yeah, sure...I'll see you soon. Bye."

He hangs up. She's looking at him now, obviously having caught the drift of his phone conversation. "Rachel, I'm really sorry but I'm going to have to cut this short. I sort of forgot I'd made plans with someone else tonight."

"Oh," she says. Her expression's a bit hard to read. "Ok, sure, not a problem. We can finish this some other time."

"I'm really sorry," he repeats, feeling guilty.

She tells him it's fine, and he thanks her for all her help and apologizes again before leaving. She doesn't doubt for a second he's got some other girl waiting for him somewhere, and she's unsure if this makes her feel sad, or just lonely. There is one thing she's certain of, however, and it's that she really wishes she were better at making people stay.

* * *

Her first week of camp goes better than expected. The children are adorable and sweet and look at her like she's a goddess when she tells them she's been on Broadway. She leaves out the part about quitting "Funny Girl" after only a month and decides to enjoy being a subject of admiration for a change as she runs them through scales and various vocal exercises.

By the time the weekend rolls around she's a little exhausted but somehow rejuvenated at the same time.

It's Saturday afternoon and she's lazing around in her bedroom listening to Barbra on vinyl. Kurt missed their Skype session again. She'll give him hell about it later, and make him regret ditching her for some scenic adventure in Paris, not that she really blames him.

She's not sure if it's boredom or intrigue that makes her pick up her phone and do what she's been debating over in her head for the past hour, but finally she decides to just for it and call him. It'll be the first time she's spoken to him in over a week.

He picks up on the second ring. "Hay, hay, hay," he answers in his McConaughey voice.

She giggles. "Hi Sam. What are you up to?"

"Just leaving work," he says. "How 'bout you?"

"Oh, nothing much. I'm kind of bored, actually."

The reception's bad and she thinks she hears him say something with the word "party" in it, but she doesn't quite catch it.

"Sorry, what?" she asks him.

"Ryder's party tonight," he repeats. "Are you going?"

Her brow furrows a bit. She barely knows Ryder, and is typically not first on anyone's invite list when it comes to parties. "I didn't know anything about it," she tells him.

"You should come," he says casually.

"I wasn't actually invited, though."

"It's no big deal, there'll be tons of people there anyway."

He's not exactly _begging_ her or anything, but she feels her lips turning up into a smile as she agrees, "Ok, sure."

"Cool," he says. "I'll see you tonight."

* * *

She's never been one for wild parties, due in part by the fact that she's never really been one to get invited to them. She at least knows how to dress for such an occasion, however, wearing a pair of thigh-high boots with a short skirt and a ruffled top showing modest cleavage, her make up a bit heavier than normal. There's already a few kids puking over the railing when she arrives. She's pretty sure one of them even stops mid-hurl to say, "Isn't that the girl from that hot mess tv show?"

The living room is a teenage wasteland. Not one face is familiar and she's already sort of wondering why the hell she even came. Then suddenly a pair of strong arms wrap around her from behind, lifting her off her feet slightly and spinning her around a few times. Apparently someone's a little too drunk and she's a little too sober. By the time the obnoxious stranger places her back on her feet she's ready to rip them a new one.

Except the stranger is her friend.

"Sam!"

"Hey Rach!" he shouts over the roar of the party. "Glad you could make it."

She smiles. "Me too."

It's a little while later and the entire party scene is pretty much drunk on itself. Rachel's made a few friends she probably won't recognize tomorrow, and a couple of guys are going to wake up with her autograph signed on their butts. At some point she ends up on a couch talking to an odd looking boy and girl who are either dating, or related, or both. The couch is full so she's seated on Sam's lap, not entirely unaware of his hand as it rests comfortably on her hip.

"My brother and I are going to have our own show one day," the dark haired girl who calls herself Madison declares with almost creepy intensity.

"That's nice," Rachel says politely. "Just a warning, though - if you ever do get on Broadway, be prepared to fall into a slump after about a month of doing a show every single night."

"Oh, don't worry about us," Madison says condescendingly. "We're not quitters like you."

Rachel's face falls as the kooky girl abruptly stands, motioning for the boy who's been identified as her brother to do the same. She thinks she sees them do some kind of weird handshake before they both turn and walk away.

"Don't listen to the incest twins," Sam says, shaking her from her brief state of befuddlement.

She looks at him, forcing a weak smile. She's only had a few beers but then again she's always been an emotional drunk who could easily burst into tears at the slightest provocation. "I probably deserved that," she says dejectedly. "I mean who am I to be giving advice to anyone?"

"Please, you're _Rachel Berry_, that's who!" he says, slurring his words a bit. "You're like the biggest star since…"

He trails off, grappling for the appropriate metaphor. She relieves him of the burden by thanking him for his sentiment. "Thanks, Sam. You're very sweet."

He's looking at her, and she can't help but look at him too. She's in his _lap_, after all. She clears her throat a bit nervously, suddenly thinking she might be a little drunker than she thought because what she says next seems to come flying out of her mouth unfiltered. "So, did you enjoy your date the other night?"

He looks confused. "What date?"

"Your date with whoever you had to go meet up with in the middle of our video shoot."

His face is hard to read at first, but then he chuckles. "I didn't have a date, Rachel."

"You didn't?"

"No. I had to go help my dad with something. It was a family thing."

"But why'd you have to _leave_?" she pouts, frowning with her bottom lip stuck out. "I was soooo sad."

Yea, she's definitely drunker than she even realized. She's not entirely sure how drunk Sam is, or how drunk she wants to _believe_ he is when he throws his arms around her, holding her petite body close to his as he presses his face into her shoulder.

"I'm _so_ sorry about that, Rach," he says, his voice muffled. "I didn't mean to leave you like that."

She tells him it's all right, and next thing she knows she's brought her hand up to stroke his hair, practically cradling his head as she whispers in his ear, "Sam...can I sing something for you?"

His head now rests comfortably on her shoulder, almost like he could drift off to sleep there. "I thought you didn't sing anymore," he utters, somewhat dazedly.

"I don't," she says softly. "But I want to, for you."

He lifts his head to look at her. "But you can't just sing for _me_," he says as if it would be some kind of travesty. "That wouldn't be fair. You have to sing so _everyone_ can hear you."

Her face is serious as she shakes her head. "I only want to sing for you. Just softly in your ear so nobody else hears me."

He doesn't argue with that and a small smile pulls at his lips as he drops his head to her shoulder once again. She clears her throat first, the liquid confidence is coursing through her, lowering her defenses as she begins to sing, angelic and soft with her lips pressed close to his ear.

_Bridges are burnin'_

_Baby I'm learnin'_

_A new way of thinking now_

_Love, I can see_

_Nothing will be_

_Just like it was_

_Is that because_

_Baby, you're so unusual_

_Didn't anyone tell you you're supposed to_

_Break my heart, I expect you to_

_So why haven't you?_

_Baby, you're not even human 'cause_

_Only an angel could be so unusual_

_A sweet surprise I could get used to_

_Unusual you_

She trails off, leaving it at that. It's nothing that brings the house down, and it's all but lost on everyone else in the room. Everyone except for him. He lifts his head up to face her. Without even meaning to her fingers are gently stroking the back of his neck. She knows he's been drinking but the look on his face is one she's never seen before, at least not when directed at her. He also looks as if he could pass out at any second, and she thinks maybe it's about time she vacates his lap so he can curl up on the couch like a baby.

Instead, and without a word, he proceeds to wrap his arms around her, hugging her gently this time. She hugs him back, and they stay that way as the party carries on around them.

* * *

**TBC...**


	3. Your Pretty Little Mind

He's not sure how it happened. Maybe the memory of it is better than it actually was. He _was_ a little drunk at the time, after all, and he's always been the type to romanticize just about anything. Whatever the case, he can't stop thinking of how he held her in his arms, the warmth of her small body cradled against him, the way she stroked her fingers through his hair as he lay his head against her soft shoulder.

And that song, the one she sang for only him to hear. Never mind the words, he can't quite recall any of them, but the melody, as well as the tone of her beautiful voice continue to haunt him like some kind of sweet angelic ghost, if there was such a thing. Not that he's a stranger to hearing her sing. That's sort of an understatement, since Rachel Berry's is a voice that demands to be heard, that practically bellows from the rooftops at all hours of the day. Her voice may as well have been the soundtrack to his high school days, he couldn't have escaped it even he'd wanted to, but to be honest, he's not sure he ever _really_ heard Rachel Berry sing until that night at the party when she sang softly in his ear, almost like she were whispering a secret for only him to hear.

"All right, snap out of it, Evans."

He says the words aloud to himself as his truck barrels into the parking lot of the Lima Bean. He's late for work again, and his boss will most likely give him hell, and the customers will all have sticks up their asses, as usual. To top it off, _she'll _probably be there, sitting at her usual table and writing songs on her iPad and wanting him to do a bunch of impressions for her to laugh at. He's not so sure he feels like dealing with her, and he's a little bit sick of her, honestly, even though he hasn't seen her in days, it's the thoughts of her that have sort of been stalking his brain, and he just needs a freaking break.

That's what he's thinking about as he enters the Lima Bean, but those thoughts fly out the window as he scans the crowded coffee shop to find she's nowhere in sight. "Damn," he thinks to himself, his heart sinking. "Where is she?"

He doesn't hear from her that day, or the next, and now it's been over a week since Ryder's party. A few times he thinks of calling her, then decides against it. He's finally getting the sound of her haunting voice out of his head, and he figures that's a good thing, or make that a _great _thing, because the last thing he wants on his mind right now is a girl, even if it's just plain old Rachel Berry. It took him months to get over what he had with Mercedes, or at least what he _thought_ he had. Their break up had been amicable, yet confusing, and a part of him is still trying to sort out his feelings and make sense of it all.

Speaking of things not making sense, he's pretty sure he hears someone slurring drunkenly out in the hall. He groans, getting up from the couch where he's been watching TV, and follows the obnoxious sounds he's certain are all coming from his own father. He opens the door and his dad practically falls through it.

"Dad," he says, putting his arms out to steady him. "Jesus Christ, not again. I thought you were out looking for work."

"Mmmm Jack Daniel's was the only man hiring," his dad slurs.

Sam cringes as his father staggers through the small apartment, knocking over a lamp in the process.

"Ok dad, come on, you need to lie down," he says. He steers him over to the couch and helps him stretch out, then takes off his coat and shoes and covers him with a blanket. His dad is snoring in a matter of seconds, but he stands over him as he sleeps, watching him and shaking his head. "You promised you wouldn't keep doing this."

* * *

The next day he's jogging in the park and he sees her. She's out jogging too, funnily enough. He's never known Rachel Berry to jog a day in her life, and here she is, sweating, panting, red in the face.

"How've you been?" she asks through her labored breaths, pulling her headphones out of her ears.

He tells her he's been good, and she says she's been good as well, and mentions something about being busy with teaching at some music camp. Then they share a long look before she starts to smile deviously.

"What?" he asks.

"Race you?"

She doesn't wait for an answer and takes off running. He follows her, and they race all the way to the picnic area. Even though she's pretty damn fast, he's still faster than her, but he lets her win anyway. Knowing how competitive she is, he's sure it'll make her day.

"You let me win!" she accuses him as soon as she gets her breath back.

"I didn't," he lies. "You've just got powerful lungs, Rach. Must be all that vocal training."

He can see she's not convinced and she's still got that playful look in her eyes like she wants, _needs_ to beat him the hard way, so she shouts, "Race you home!" and takes off running. His chest is still heaving from their first race, but he just laughs and takes off after her. He's pretty sure she beats him on her own merit this time, but he's probably too light-headed to know the difference.

"Hey, do you wanna go to Breadstix tonight?" she asks him once they've practically collapsed into heaps of exhaustion on her front lawn.

She doesn't say it like it's any big deal. Not like it's a _date_ or anything, just like a casual friend-thing, since that's what they are. She smiles when he says "yeah, sure," and they agree to meet at seven tonight. They bid each other goodbye until then, and head to their respective homes.

As he walks back to his house, he's still trying to decide whether he picked the wrong day or the right day to go jogging without a shirt.

* * *

"No way," he exclaims, winding what is easily a ten foot long piece of spaghetti around his fork.

"It's true," she insists.

"I cannot _believe_ you've never seen Star Wars."

She shrugs. "Yeah, I guess my dads were so busy exposing me to the Broadway classics they neglected the sci-fi genre."

"Well if your dads were here right now I'd give them a piece of my mind about that."

Her face darkens a bit, and she looks down. "My dads are, um...getting a divorce. I just found out a few weeks ago."

He has to admit he's a bit shocked. The Berries, known infamously to most as "Rachel's dads" always seemed like such a solid institution. Not that he really knew them personally or anything. "Rach, I'm so sorry," he says warmly.

She forces a weak smile. "It's ok. It's just another life-altering thing I'll have to get used to in time."

"I actually know how you feel...well, sort of. You see, the reason I ran out on you that night at your house was because I was helping my dad move into my apartment. He and my mom had been fighting about money for a while, and she finally kicked him out and told him not to come back until he found a more stable job. He spends his days looking for work, but then he usually just gets depressed and goes to the bar. He's come home drunk every night for the past week."

"Sam…" she says, reaching across the table for his hand. "That's awful, I'm so sorry. I know you've had some family issues in the past. I just wish I could make everything all right for you."

He looks down at her small hand that's covering his, feeling the softness of it as her thumb strokes lightly over his knuckles. Then, acting on impulse, he brings her hand to his lips, kissing it softly before placing it back on the table. She's taken aback, her brown eyes widening a bit, but the kiss is brief and chaste enough to pass for a friendly gesture, and she just smiles nervously and changes the subject.

"Hey, I thought of another impression for you to do. It's one I'm fairly certain you've never attempted before."

"Oh yeah? What is it?"

She looks him square in the eye. "Me."

"You want me to do you? I mean you-you know, like an impression of you?"

She nods. "Yeah. Why not? I mean, I know I'm a _girl_ and everything so it'd be a bit outside your repertoire. But you have to remember I'm somewhat of a low-grade celebrity now, meaning I've voluntarily subjected myself to the scrutiny and lampooning that comes with fame and am fair game for even the most unflattering of characterizations."

He didn't quite catch all of that, but he replies, "What makes you think my impression of you would be unflattering?"

"Well, given that the nature of impressions is to exploit a person's most abrasively dominant quirks, I'd expect nothing less."

"What ever happened to imitation being a form of flattery?"

She smiles playfully. "Ok fine. So go ahead and flatter me."

"You _really_ dig my impressions, don't you?"

She breaks off a piece of a breadstick and tosses it at him. "Yeah, of course I do. Now come on and give me your best Rachel Berry."

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Rach, but I'm gonna need some time to prepare this one. You're kind of putting me on the spot here."

She sighs. "Well, I guess the impromptu performance is an art that some of us have yet to master."

"I'm not sure I care for your tone, Miss Berry," he says teasingly.

"I'm not sure I care for these breadsticks. You really think the food here is better than in New York?"

"You miss it, don't you? New York and everything about it?"

She's looking down, absently breaking pieces off a breadstick and tossing them onto her plate. "I'm sure it doesn't miss me."

He grabs a breadstick from the basket and points it at her as if to scold her with it. "Hey, look at me." She looks at him. "I may not have my Rachel Berry impression down yet. But when I finally do perfect it, you can bet it's going to be an impression of a girl who's an incredible, unstoppable, larger than life superstar. Anything less than that would just be blasphemous. Do you hear me?"

Her mopey look slowly brightens into a warm smile. "Thanks, Sam. And I know this isn't like a date or anything, but I just want you to know this is the first time I've really hung out with a guy alone since, um...I mean, you know…"

Of course he knows what she's referring to, or make that _whom_, even though she doesn't say his name, and probably _can't_ say it because it's too damn hard, and always will be. "I'm so sorry you lost him, Rach," he tells her. Words can't soothe the hurt, can't heal her heart, he knows it, but it's all he can offer her right now, in addition to his friendship and support.

"We all lost him," she says, her voice breaking almost imperceptibly.

He doesn't say anything more, just reaches across the table to cover her hand with his. It's a friendly gesture, nothing more, and he can tell by the way her face brightens that for now it's enough, and she appreciates it.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Next chapter should be up shortly.**


	4. Undiscovered

_You're undiscovered_

_I wanna see the rest of you_

_I can't get next to you..._

_I can't get next to you..._

The next day she can hardly wait for camp to be over. As much as she loves the kids, she's super excited to see Sam so she can tell him the great news. She drives straight to the Lima Bean where she knows she'll find him working behind the counter, probably wasting more of his uncanny impressions on a bunch of humorless coffee consumers. She's practically skipping as she approaches him, and he smiles reactively upon seeing her.

"Hey Rach, what's up?"

"Oh my God Sam I have the best news! Can you talk right now?"

"Yeah, it's cool, my boss is on a smoke break. What's going on?"

"Ok, so last night I was Skyping with Florence, my old makeup artist from _Funny Girl _-who just so happens to be one of the few people in the Broadway circuit who will still speak to me - and I mentioned how my friend's father was out of a job and how it's been really, really hard on your family, and _she_ mentioned how her brother is the CEO of this big Fortune 500 company whose headquarters are in Ohio." She pauses to take a breath, then continues, "Anyway, so I right away ask her if she wouldn't mind putting in a call to her brother to see if his company has any current job openings your dad might apply for. And she agreed, although a bit begrudgingly since they apparently aren't on the best of terms."

"Wow Rach, that's amazing, thank you so much for doing that," he says.

"But wait-there's more! So then this afternoon I got a text from Florence saying there _is_ in fact a job opening, and that with her and her brother as a reference your dad would be guaranteed to get an interview. Isn't that great?"

He wants to jump over the counter and hug her for this. "Oh my God, that-that's incredible, Rachel, really, I don't know how to thank you."

She grins. "Just get me a green tea and we'll call it even."

"Of course," he says, knowing it's the least he can do. "Coming right up."

He goes to fix her tea, turning away from her, and she finds herself watching him, her eyes roaming over the well-defined lines in his back rounding into sculpted shoulders that shift almost aesthetically as he moves about. She blushes in spite of herself, and reroutes her gaze before he turns around.

"Here you go," he says, handing her the scalding hot cup of tea.

"Thanks," she says, taking it. "Well, I'll let you get back to work."

"Wait a second, Rach," he says. "Why don't you come out with me tonight? I'm supposed to meet a couple friends at this bar called The Roundhouse. It'd be great if you could join us. I mean come on, after what you did for my dad you have to let me repay you with more than a cup of hot water and leaves."

She hesitates before answering. "Oh, I-I don't know. I mean I wouldn't want to intrude on a guy's night out or anything."

"Oh come on, you wouldn't be intruding."

"Yeah, but I just...I can't tonight. I'm sorry."

He's visibly disappointed, also a bit confused. "Oh...ok. Well, some other time then."

"Yeah," she says stiffly, the vibe between them now slightly awkward. She tells him she'll text him all the information about the job, then she leaves, feeling his eyes on her as she exits the crowded coffee shop.

* * *

"You guys actually went _jogging_ together?" Kurt's face asks through the computer screen.

"Well, sort of," Rachel says. "We didn't plan it or anything, we just happened to bump into each other at the park...and he didn't have a shirt on." That last part she adds hesitantly, suddenly wishing this Skype session was in black and white to keep Kurt from noticing the blush that's now coloring her cheeks.

"All right, so did you just call to rub my nose in your crazy single life?"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please, you're the one off galavanting in _Paris_ while I'm stuck here watching the grass grow in Lima. And it's just Sam, I mean it's not like his abs are anything that I, or _any of us_, haven't seen before."

"True," Kurt agrees. "Then again, I'm not the one who was oiling him up during that naked photoshoot you arranged for him last year."

"Kurt! That was a strictly a business venture. I was helping him with his career-you know, as a _friend_."

"No need to get defensive, Rach. You certainly wouldn't be the first to fall under the Trouty Mouth love spell. I'm as guilty as the rest of them."

"All right, all right!" she snaps, her irritation masking the bashfulness she's certain has tinted Kurt's computer screen a deep shade of crimson. "Can we change the subject, please?"

"You mean the subject of Sam's hot sweaty abs which _you_ brought up?" She shoots him a glare. "All right, fine. But can I please just say one thing?"

"Ok, but I'm disconnecting this cyber exchange if you say anything more about Sam or his abs."

"It's not about _Sam_, Rach. It's about you giving yourself permission to move on, to find a light at the end of the dark tunnel. It's something we all want for you, I just hope you know that."

Her expression softens, but there's a faint sadness in her eyes even as she feels the warm sincerity in her friend's words. "I do know that," she says softly. "I just...don't want to hurt anyone."

"_Hurt_ anyone?" he replies incredulously. "Rachel, I don't know who you think would be hurt or scandalized or appalled by your finding happiness, but whoever they are should be arrested for being a complete and utter jerkwad. Lord knows you've suffered enough already, and you never did anything wrong in the first place. You are more deserving of happiness than anyone I know, your friends know that and they want to see you take on the world again. It's time to start rebelling against the fates that dealt you such a lousy hand."

She's silent for a moment, taking this all in. "Thanks, Kurt. Although, if we're talking about my career I can't exactly blame it all on _fate_. It was my own restlessness and bad instinct that made me throw my Broadway dreams out the window for a chance at television stardom."

Kurt contemplates this briefly. "Ok, you're right," he agrees. "We'll chalk that one up to 'bad instinct.' And as for your restlessness, well, imagine anyone getting _bored _living Groundhog Day six nights a week and twice on Sunday! Because if there's one thing _everybody_ desires out of life, it's never-ending monotony, am I right? Oh, and I'm sure no other theater actor besides yourself would be even _remotely_ tantalized if Hollywood were suddenly throwing scripts in their face. If only you'd had the foresight to know the show would be an across the board failure. Remind me to get you a crystal ball for Hanukkah next year."

By the time he's through with his rant a smile is tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Boy, I sure hope your sarcasm translates in French, Hummel. Because believe it or not, some people find it difficult to detect even without a language barrier."

"Well, that's why I only use it on the people who know me best."

"I'll always know you the best," she says sweetly.

"Well then, Miss Berry, you should know that it is time for my extensive moisturizing ritual. I know the night is still young in Lima, but it's closing time in Paris."

"Oh my God, the time difference!" She keeps forgetting they're on separate continents. "I guess I should let you get ready for bed now, huh?"

"Only if you're the type of friend who values proper nighttime exfoliation followed by a full eight hours of beauty sleep. Which we both know you are."

She pouts. "I can't believe you're going to bed. I haven't even had dinner yet! I'll never get used to this long distance thing."

"Relax, Berry, there's only an ocean between us. I'm still not far enough away to block out the sound of your annoying voice."

"Well gee, I love you too, smart ass."

They both say their goodbyes and hang up. Afterwards she finds herself mulling over the things Kurt said. On some level she knows he's right, the hard part is granting herself permission to know it, to _feel_ the rejuvenation she knows is bubbling somewhere within, wanting desperately to rise out of the depths and glimpse the light above the surface.

God, she wants to see him tonight. He's so funny, and so fun, and so damn corny. He's so _Sam_.

No more second guessing, her mind's made up, she'll ransack her closet for something to wear in a minute, but first there's something she has to do. Grabbing her phone off the nightstand, she scrolls through her contacts until she finds the right name, then types out a text.

**Rachel: Hey how's everything going? Miss you :\**

A few minutes go by before she receives a response.

**Mercedes: Hey girl! Miss you too, believe it or not lol. I'm good...busy. How bout you?**

**Rachel: I'm good, thanks. **

**Rachel: So are you still dating that guy? Trunk?**

**Mercedes: You mean Tank? Lol yeah we're still going strong. Almost four months now!**

**Rachel: Aw that's great!**

**Mercedes: Thanks! And girl, please tell me you're getting yourself out there too! Remember what we talked about?**

**Rachel: Yeah...actually, there's something I've been wanting to tell you.**

**Mercedes: Ok...?**

**Rachel: This is a little awkward, but I've sort of been hanging out with Sam lately. Not like DATING or anything, we're just friends but tonight he asked me to come meet him at a bar.**

**Mercedes: I know, he told me.**

**Rachel: Wait what? He did?**

**Mercedes: Of course he did. We're friends, we talk all the time. Look, I know Sam and I have a history, but it's just that - history.**

**Rachel: So...you're not mad?**

**Mercedes: Lol Rachel you know damn well what I sound like when I'm mad, and this ain't it. No but seriously, Sam and I are in the past. I'm really happy with Tank...Happier than I've ever been, honestly.**

**Rachel: That's great, M. And thanks :)**

**Mercedes: All right Miss Diva, now go put on one of your short little hoochie skirts and get your ass back in the game.**

**Rachel: Lol. Rude! **

**Mercedes: Haha well I gotta go get ready for my show tonight Rach so I'll ttyl.**

**Rachel: Break a leg! Love ya **

**Mercedes: Love ya back :)**

* * *

He sits at a table with Spencer and Jake, wishing to God he could unhear this guy's heinous rendition of "F*ck You" by Cee-Lo. He's only on his second beer and not nearly buzzed enough to find the novelty in watching another tone-deaf drunk stumble around on stage while butchering a classic. He's _definitely_ not buzzed enough to get up there and butcher one himself, although that could very well come later. Right now he's basically just sitting here cold sober as the words "fuck you, and fuck you too" serenade the mid-sized bar.

He's already told himself it's a good thing Rachel declined to join him here tonight. The place is sort of a dive, she'd probably cringe at the sight of it, and be scarred for life by the lack of performance etiquette being displayed on stage. If he'd been thinking straight he wouldn't have asked her in the first place. Still, though...she could've at least given a _reason_, instead of just brushing him off inexplicably, like-

"Hey, isn't that Rachel Berry?" Spencer asks, gesturing toward the door.

He turns around on his barstool, and, much to his amazement, Spencer is right, and there she is. She's standing near the front entrance, sort of scanning the crowded haze in search of a familiar face. He immediately hops off his seat and hurries over to her, calling out her name.

"Rach!"

She finally notices him, relief setting into her face as she smiles.

"I'm so glad you came!" he says into her ear as he pulls her into a friendly hug.

"Me too," she replies as they part.

He leads her over to where he and his friends have been sitting for the better part of an hour, but when he gets there he finds Spencer holed up in what is _definitely_ a flirtatious exchange with some long-haired dude. Meanwhile Jake is talking with two rowdy-looking guys, clearly in the infantile stages of what will most likely develop into a brawl at some point throughout the night. Oh well, he's a little embarrassed to be hanging out with high school kids anyway, so he decides to leave them to their own devices, at least for now, and he steers Rachel away from the table and over to the bar.

"What would you like?" he asks her.

She looks a bit hesitant. "I, um, don't have a fake I.D. or anything."

"Oh, it's cool, the bartender's a friend of mine. I've been coming here since I was sixteen. Just don't tell my mom." She laughs cutely and asks for an amaretto sour. He remembers her ordering that back in New York, and he just hopes his buddy behind the bar knows how to make her one that's at least halfway decent.

He pays for her drink, ordering another beer for himself, and together they make their way over to a table against the wall. He has to admit, he's secretly glad the table is small, a two-seater, so no one else will think they're invited to join them.

"It's not exactly Broadway's finest," he says of the sad cast of characters lined up to grace, or rather _disgrace_, the stage.

"Why didn't you tell me this was a karaoke bar?"

"Would that have enticed you at all?" he asks.

"Of course!" she exclaims. "I think karaoke's a riot. Plus, hearing a person get up and sing when their inhibitions are lowered is sort of a beautiful thing. No matter how bad they might sound, it's like they're baring a piece of their soul, in a way."

Funny, he would've taken her for a vocal purist who discouraged that type of thing. On the contrary, she seems both amused and intrigued by the obscene amount of musical misdemeanors being committed before her eyes.

They remain at their table alone together, both tossing back a few more drinks while swapping stories from high school and finally concluding that his mouth size was possibly the only physical attribute their friends mocked more than her nose. At one point they end up on the dance floor, Rachel snorting with laughter as he body rolls to the beat of a supremely butchered "Treasure" by Bruno Mars.

The night wears on, and now that long-haired guy that Spencer was chatting up earlier has taken the stage and is singing a surprisingly coherent rendition of Springsteen's "I'm On Fire." Sam is a bit put off by the notion of this being a song of seduction aimed at Spencer, but he has to admit this dude can sing, and Springsteen is one of his all-time faves. Rachel seems to like it too. He's standing behind her, her back turned, and without even thinking twice about it his arms wrap around her waist. He feels her lean back into him a little as they enjoy the remainder of the song. When it's over everyone else applauds, but he just keeps holding her.

"You should go up there," he whispers in her ear. He knows she probably won't, but honestly right now there isn't anything he wants more than to hear her sing, and for the others at the bar hear it too. He's certain they won't even know what hit them.

Much to his surprise, she turns her head to look at him and asks, "Will you sing with me?"

She smiles when he nods his head in agreement.

God, what _is_ this song? It's clearly one of those 80's love ballads sung originally by Madonna, or some Madonna wannabe. Truth be told, he's too caught up in her eyes to give a damn what song he's singing, or if anyone in the room is even listening. She's so beautiful. He realized it the other day when she was all red-faced and sweating from her jog in the park.

Their song ends. He wishes they could sing another one but there's a whole line of people waiting to boot them off stage. Most of the bar erupts with enthusiastic applause. Sure, they're all sloshed out of their minds and would probably applaud anything, but he can see in her face that she appreciates it. He can only imagine the validation is probably something she craves now more than ever, even if it's the validation of drunks at a bar.

As soon as they're off stage she surprises him by pulling him into a warm embrace. He reciprocates, wrapping his arms around her small frame as she whispers, "Thanks for inviting me tonight."

"My pleasure," he responds, rubbing her back. "I'm so glad you came. You sounded amazing up there and they loved you."

She breaks their hug then so she can look him in the eye. The expression she wears is one he hasn't seen before and for a moment the room stops, the music fades and he can feel himself leaning into her, slowly. But then something forces him back to earth, and it's the sound of glass shattering, and chairs being flipped over as a crowd of onlookers chant, "fight, fight, fight!"

He doesn't even have to look to know who's causing the ruckus. This was how most nights out with Jake Puckerman ended, so it was only a matter of time. He looks around for Spencer but he's nowhere in sight. Meanwhile Rachel watches the commotion tearing up the barroom floor, concern evident in her face.

"Stay right here," he tells her before reluctantly leaving her side. He has to push his way through a crowd of gawkers that may as well be spectators at a boxing ring the way they're all oohing and aahing as Jake dodges a punch thrown by an unruly looking guy who's easily twice his size. Sam quickly intervenes, seizing Jake and dragging him away from the brawl.

"Dude, get the fuck off me!" Jake seethes, trying fight off Sam's restraint.

"No way, man, that dude's gonna pull a gun on you if you piss him off anymore than you already have."

"Sam, the cops are on their way, you better get him out of here fast," the bartender warns him.

"Shit," he mutters. "All right, bro, well unless you want to get arrested we have to get the hell out of here _now_. Where is Spencer anyway?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

Sam's eyes scan the room for Spencer one last time. He's nowhere in sight, so he figures he probably went off somewhere with that ponytailed Springsteen crooner. There's no time to even worry about it now. The cops will be pulling up any minute, and with him and Jake being underage they'll both be in deep shit if they're caught. Amid the commotion he remembers Rachel. His eyes dart frantically over to the place where he last left her, but she isn't there.

"Go outside and wait by my car, I'll be right out," he orders Jake.

"What?" Jake protests.

"Just _do it_, all right? I'll be out in a second."

Jake begrudgingly obeys, and Sam immediately scours the bar in search of Rachel, pushing his way through the crowd which has mostly dissipated by now. He calls out her name a few times, but it's no use. She's nowhere to be found, meanwhile he's pretty sure he hears police sirens wailing in the distance, and Jake has probably already gotten himself into another fight by now. Reluctantly he exits the bar, hoping to God Rachel is safe wherever she is and that she isn't royally pissed at him for abandoning her.

* * *

**TBC...**

_Song credits: "Undiscovered" - Laura Welsh, "I'm On Fire" - Bruce Springsteen_


	5. Crash Into Me

**Hey guys! sorry this is such a short chapter, just figured I'd finally update with something small rather than keep you hanging any longer. Also just want to say a big THANK YOU to all who have reviewed, subscribed, favorited - hopefully you're all still with me! I know things didn't exactly pan out the way we hoped on the show, but hey that's what fanfiction is for! Anyway, I'll try to crank out the next chapter ASAP. Hope you guys enjoy this one, even though it's short. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

He's a fucking moron.

_Yeah, no shit, Evans. That's not exactly breaking news to anyone who knows you._

But at least he's not the type of moron that thinks he's a genius. He's _definitely_ smart enough to know his brain game ain't so strong, which is why last night's events should come as no great surprise as he replays them over in his head for the millionth time.

_He drops Jake off at his house, still pissed at him for cutting the night short by brawling with some goon and nearly getting them both arrested. This is _for sure _the last time he goes out drinking with high school boys, and he'll continue to reiterate the fact that Jake "owes him big time" for saving his ass tonight._

_He's tried calling Rachel at least a half a dozen times already but she's not picking up. His first concern is that she's safe, his second is that she isn't annoyed with him for running off and leaving her to fend for herself in a rowdy bar. Her house is only a mile or so from Jake's so he heads over there, speeding along the dark, deserted streets a bit anxiously._

_When he arrives he finds her sitting on her front porch, her car parked in the driveway._

_Noting the "for sale" sign in the yard, he rations she's probably reveling in the sentimental loneliness of the quiet night, one of the last nights she'll get to witness from the front porch of her childhood home. He knows the feeling._

"_Hey," he says softly._

"_Hey," she replies. Her face is masked by darkness, but there's no trace of hostility in her tone._

"_I'm so sorry for leaving you like that, Rach. Jake was the one who started the fight and I had to get us both out of there before the cops came." He's standing in front of her now, close enough to read the pensive, yet warm and inviting expression playing across her face._

"_It's ok," she assures him genuinely. She pats the spot next to her, beckoning him to sit down. He does. _

_A bright shaft of moonlight pools at their feet. They're dipping their toes in it. "I'm glad you're not mad," he says._

_She shakes her head. "I'm sorry I left the bar without telling you. I just figured with all the commotion you wouldn't be able to find me and I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible."_

_He leans in a bit closer to her so that his knee rests against hers and their shoulders are touching. "You did the right thing. I'm just glad you're ok."_

_She turns her head to look at him. "I'm glad you're ok, too...I had a good time with you tonight."_

"_Me too," he says softly. Her eyes are just mesmerizing; the way they glint majestically it's as if they're holding every star in the sky. "And I meant it when I said your voice sounded amazing. They all went wild for you."_

"_For _us_," she corrects. "Honestly, I still can't believe you got me to go up there."_

_He swallows thickly, still lost in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to force you or anything. I just thought-"_

"_No," she interrupts. "I'm glad. It was my first time singing in public in ages. I honestly couldn't have done it without you there supporting me...so thank you."_

_He whispers a "you're welcome." Their faces are dangerously close now, their noses practically touching, and so, acting on impulse, he does what he presumes to be the inevitable thing, and leans in and kisses her. It's gentle at first, then the passion accelerates at lightening speed, only to come crashing to a halt as she pulls away abruptly. Her wide eyes meet his only fleetingly before she disappears inside the house and shuts the door._

Not surprisingly, he hasn't heard from her since. He kicks himself once more, partly for being a jackass, and partly to keep himself awake as he shuffles through his five hour shift at The Lima Bean. It had certainly been a long, highly eventful night, and it's all he can do to keep from falling asleep on the job, the endless supply of caffeine at his disposal being his one and only saving grace.

But a triple-shot of espresso does little to stifle his yawns. He's pretty much asleep with his eyes open when a vaguely familiar voice compels his attention. He looks up and sees Missy Gunderson standing on the opposite side of the counter.

"Oh, hey," he says, recognizing the girl he'd once secretly voted for for Prom Queen just to spite Quinn Fabray.

"I haven't seen you since graduation," she says. "How've you been?"

He gives her a brief rundown of his whereabouts over the past several months. He knows she's sizing him up, and he doesn't miss the way her eyebrows raise when he mentions his days of male modeling in New York. She fills him in on her post-graduation real-world feats, emphasizing the Ivy League college at which she's currently the president of this club, that club, and a zillion other clubs he can't keep track of in his bleary-eyed state.

"Oh my God, did you hear about Rachel Berry?" she asks.

He's been zoned out for the past minute, at least, but the mention of Rachel's name immediately jolts him back to life. "Wait, what?" he asks dumbly.

"Oh, what am I saying? Of _course_ you've heard. I keep forgetting you were in that song and dance club with her back in high school. But yeah, can you believe her going out to Hollywood and trying to be a TV star? Talk about an epic failure."

He's pretty sure Rachel _fails_ better than the average Lima Ohioan can toss a salad. "Yeah, I heard," he says uncomfortably.

She chuckles. "Well, apparently she's back home sulking around like some loser. Not that I'm surprised. I mean nobody in high school ever believed she'd actually amount to anything."

He grits his teeth, wondering what this uppity girl's actual grievance is. Then his memory flashes back to Rachel winning Prom Queen in 2012 and it starts to make a bit more sense. Still, he feels the urge to stick up for his friend and put the Ivy League snob in her place. "I'd say Rachel already _has_ amounted to plenty. Sure, she's had her setbacks, but at least she's brave and determined enough to go for her dreams, even at the risk of failing. That's more than most people in this town can say, don't you think?"

She's taken aback at first, then just rolls her eyes at his refusal to join in on her Rachel Berry bashing session. No further pleasantries are exchanged between them as she frigidly orders her coffee to go and walks out with her nose in the air.

"Good riddance," is all he can mutter under his breath. He suddenly wishes every naysayer and self-righteous snob like Missy Gunderson was lined up at the counter so he could give them all a piece of his mind. He's always prided himself on being a loyal friend, but honestly his instinct to defend Rachel came on so strongly that he's almost reeling in the aftermath. He simply _could not_ stand back and allow anyone to mock and belittle her the way his former classmate had so lamely attempted just now. Rachel had her flaws, but her heart was the most beautiful thing. She was kind, sweet, genuine, supportive, and, contrary to popular belief, didn't talk half as much as she listened.

"She's amazing," he can't help but say out loud. He just hopes if he can't kiss her again that he can at least continue being her friend.

...But he _really_ hopes he can kiss her again.

* * *

Her feet pound against the pavement. Normally she prefers her elliptical but it's a bit uninspiring, if not downright depressing, being cooped up in her bedroom now in its boxed-up, half-empty state, so she instead opts for a morning jog through the park. It's as if she's trying to outrun the thoughts in her head. They chase her anyway, pursuing her relentlessly until she's almost certain they're all lurking behind trees waiting to jump out and tackle her at any moment. Then again, that scenario isn't quite so undesirable, considering her predominant thought is _Sam_.

She still feels guilty for running off on him the other night. When she'd kissed him (_that's right, Rach, YOU kissed HIM_) it had felt like the only natural thing for her to do. Their night together had been amazing; _more_ amazing than she even wanted to admit. But it wasn't just that night, it was the other nights, as well as days she'd spent growing closer to him over the past few weeks. He'd made her laugh harder than she had in months and smile wider than she thought she ever would again.

And her still body buzzed all over when she thought of his touch. She'd wanted more, _needed_ more of him when they'd kissed that night. As soon as her lips were on his she'd felt a raw passion blaze through like a fireball wrapped in desire. It was so intense, she'd had to literally wrench herself away from it in order to avoid it overtaking her completely. Just the fact that she was even _capable_ of feeling that way towards him, or anybody, scared her half to death. The most terrifying part was, she had no way of knowing whether he felt anything even remotely as intense about her.

So maybe that's the reason she's running, practically sprinting through the park this morning. She's scared. And when most people are scared, they run. However, she's always been the type of girl who's more likely to run _into_ something rather than away from it.

Speaking of which…

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Sam says to the girl he just bumped into by accident. He'd made a sharp turn and practically collided with...Rachel. "Rachel?"

"Uh, yeah, hey," she says, squinting through the sun as she looks up at him. She's thoroughly embarrassed, not to mention a bit starry-eyed and blindsided after being knocked flat on her butt.

"God, I'm _so_ sorry, Rach," he apologizes again. "Here, let me help you."

She takes his outstretched hand and lets him help her off the ground. She chuckles awkwardly as she brushes herself off. "Sorry, I guess I wasn't exactly watching where I was going either."

"No, it was totally my fault. Sometimes when I'm running I like to act out all the training montages from _Rocky_ and I get carried away. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," she assures him. They share a smile but soon the awkwardness sets in.

"I uh, had fun hanging out with you the other night," he says, breaking the silence.

"Me too," she says genuinely. "And listen, I'm sorry about-"

"No, it was my fault-"

No really, I...wait, how could it be your fault? I'm the one who kissed you and ran off, like a moron."

He's not sure he heard her right. "Wait, _you_ kissed _me_? Because I'm almost positive it was the other way around."

She shakes her head. "Nope, I was definitely the instigator. And it was, um...a really good kiss." The last part she admits shyly, looking down at her feet.

He smiles, watching her. Her face is already flushed from running but he can tell she's blushing as well. "It wasn't just good," he tells her. "It was like, the best I've ever had."

She looks up at him. A smile tugs at her lips and he swears there's a hint of sensuality in her eyes as they stare intensely into his for several moments. "You don't mean that," she says teasingly.

"I do," he insists, mesmerized by this tiny bead of sweat that drips slowly down her chest. "Although it would've been better if I could've finished it."

She bites her lip, feeling tingles in places where she thought all her nerve endings had been permanently deactivated. There's no use denying it; she wants him, and she doesn't care if it scares him, or how much it scares herself. "Well," she begins, clearing her throat, "My new goal is to finish what I start."

"Oh really?" he says with a raised eyebrow. They're both being openly flirtatious, and he thinks she might've just invited him to lean in and kiss her ripe and delicious looking mouth, and God knows he wants to.

"Really," she affirms. She kinda-sorta just asked him to kiss her, and she definitely (not-kinda, not-sorta, but _definitely_) wants him to do it, but suddenly her boldness is diminished by the notion that she's flush-faced and sweaty from running, and has dirt on her pants from falling flat on her butt. Realizing she doesn't look half as sexy as certain parts of her body currently feel, she finds herself wanting to divert his attention, which is still surprisingly fixated on her in spite of her grungy appearance. "You know what, I actually have a favor to ask you...I mean it's not a _big_ favor or anything, just something I've been thinking about."

"Sure, Rach," he says, slightly thrown off by her change of subject. "What is it?"

"Well, I was just thinking - only if you wanted to, I mean - maybe you could come to camp with me this afternoon? The kids have their final recital coming up on Thursday and it would be great if you could hear what they've been preparing. I'd love to get your feedback since I'm a bit nervous about the recital myself...but of course if you don't want to, it's totally-"

"I'd love to," he says.

"Really?"

"Yeah, of course. Although I'm not sure how valuable my input would be considering my last solo in glee club was _Red Solo Cup_...or was it Bieber? I can't even remember."

"Oh come on, Sam, of course your input has value. You were such an important member of New Directions, a club that - hello - only won a _national championship_ in 2012. Plus I've always felt that a person's impeccable knack for impressions indicates strong musicality and attention to detail."

He's pretty sure she just made that last part up, and half the time she talks so fast he doesn't know what she's saying, or if _she_ even knows, but one thing she never fails to do is make him feel special, like even his lamest endeavors and goofy impersonations are actually worth something, and like _he's_ worth something too. "Thanks, Rach," he says. "You can count on me. I'll be there."

His words make her smile. "Great. I'll see you later this afternoon."

* * *

**TBC...**


End file.
